“Everyone knows about this party,” said Noor. “You know what this means, right? Our outfits have to slay.”
“I’ve narrowed my outfit choices down to eight,” said Daphne. “And I’ve asked Mum to get me these gorge platform heels for Christmas.”
I asked Dad for a new pair of trainers. Should I have asked for party clothes instead? It sounded like everyone was going all out, and I didn’t want to be left behind.
Just as we reached the front of the queue, we heard someone calling Yas. We turned to see Jayden Taylor, walking towards us. No one looked more surprised than Yasmin. Even more so when he reached down to give her a hug.
“How’s it going, Yas? I didn’t know you were Isaac Mensah’s little sis,” he said. Yasmin managed to nod in reply.
“Isaac is killing it this term. I swear our football team would be nothing without him.” Again, Yasmin managed little more than a nod.
It was clear that Yasmin wasn’t going to invite Jayden to the party. She could barely form a syllable. One of us had to step in.
“You around on New Year’s Eve?” I asked.
“Yeah!” Yasmin suddenly remembered how to use her mouth. “We’re having a house party. Come?”
“I’m there,” said Jayden. “Just tell me where and when. You’ve got me on Snap, right?” After checking his phone to make sure he was following Yas, he gave her shoulder a little squeeze before walking away. Most of the girls in the queue watched him leave, too.
“Did … did that just happen?” asked Yasmin.
“Yep. Looks like the hottest guy in our school is gonna be at your party, babe!” said Noor.
I had mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, the hottest guy in school and his mates were coming to our party. YASSSS!
On the other hand, the hottest guy in school and his mates were coming to our party. Oh god oh god oh god.
What if someone tries to kiss me? What if someone doesn’t try to kiss me?
This party was the perfect chance for me to lose my snog virginity. So why did I feel so nervous?
TEN
Dear Mum,
Merry Christmas! I know you weren’t a big fan of the festive season, but this time of year still reminds me of you.
Dad offered to drive me up to Grandma Thomas’s, which was a surprise. Did that mean he wasn’t surgically attached to Lisa (who’d become a permanent fixture in our lives) after all? Maybe it was motivated by guilt. He hasn’t tormented me about my homework recently because he’s hardly ever in.
Whatever the reason, I said no to his offer. Grandma Thomas has always despised Dad. Seeing them together is so awkward, Dad standing around in the living room while Gran pretends he isn’t there. I’m old enough to take the train on my own, so I’d much rather do that. At least this way I can choose my own music rather than being subjected to Golden Oldies FM, Dad’s radio station of choice.
Remember the Christmas with the blizzard, when all the trains were cancelled? We had to stay in London instead of going to see Grandma Thomas in Derby. I was devastated at not spending Christmas Day with the whole family (missing out on the presents didn’t have anything to do with it, of course).
You tried to recreate a Christmas dinner that was just like Gran’s. You even skipped being vegetarian for the day and roasted a turkey crown. But we fell asleep in front of the sofa watching The Wizard of Oz, woken up by the smoke alarm. Dinner was ruined. So you made it up to me by letting me choose what we ate. Everyone at school was so jealous when I told them that I had a never-ending stack of pancakes and ice cream on Christmas Day. Loads better than sprouts.
This year, I have my fingers crossed for snow. Most of all, I can’t wait to see my nice, normal, slightly boring family.
Your side of the family is worlds apart from Dad’s. At Grandma Thomas’s house, there’s no danger of century-old feuds being brought up over dinner. We just eat too much food, argue about which classic film to watch and talk all the way through it anyway. Nothing weird ever happens there and I love it. (I mean, Great Aunt Rita may overdo it on the rum punch, take out her false teeth and pretend to be a witch. But that’s standard.)
This year’s Christmas dinner was much like all the others: busy and loud. It made me realize how quiet my house in London is – I can go days without seeing Dad or Aphrodite. With all the chaos, it wasn’t until this morning that I got to spend some time alone with Grandma Thomas. Just like it used to be.
I woke up way earlier than usual. Gran was still in her quilted dressing gown and undertaking her main chore of the morning – making Boxing Day soup from the Christmas turkey leftovers.
“Madam is awake, is she? I’ll get the breakfast on,” Gran said disapprovingly. Like sleeping past eight a.m. on a school holiday made me lazy. Maybe she has more in common with Dad than I thought?
I put the kettle on and hoped no one would see the two and a half sugars I was sneaking in. Then I remembered that you weren’t here to chide me on my sugar intake, and I felt that intense pang in my stomach I sometimes get when I think about you. I suppressed a sniffle while Gran prepared breakfast.
“I remembered to pick up your favourite,” Gran said, motioning to the bread bin on the counter. I discreetly wiped my eyes and opened the bread bin.
Hard dough bread! The white stodgy loaf spread with salted butter was literally all I ate when I came to stay with Grandma Thomas as a kid. You were never a fan, but Gran and I could eat it all day. Sometimes with strawberry jam or with tomato soup. I never really had it in London. It would be weird to eat it anywhere but Grandma Thomas’s kitchen table, spread with soft butter from the crystal dish.
I squealed and immediately carved myself a doorstep slice of bread.
“Why you looking so marga, child? I don’t know what that father of yours is feeding you in London, but you are as bony as a bird. I bet it’s beans on toast every night.”
Gran never missed the chance to critique every element of Dad’s parenting, from how much sleep I was getting to how much I was (or wasn’t) eating. Can you believe Gran still hates Dad?
No matter what I said or how I said it, Grandma Thomas would paint him as an immature man-baby who ruined your chances of marrying someone decent, like a doctor or pastor. All I have to say is: Grandma Thomas ain’t ever told a lie. But he isn’t as bad as she makes him out to be. I think you knew that too, Mum.
“Don’t worry, Gran, I’m eating loads,” I said, through a mouth full of bread and butter.
“That reminds me. I’ve got some ackee and saltfish in the freezer with your name on it. You mustn’t let that greedy father of yours eat it either. He always was fond of my cooking,” Gran said with more than a hint of smugness.
I used to find it hard to believe that you were related to Grandma Thomas, let alone raised by her. You loved nothing more than a spicy tofu stir fry and only let me have sweets on Saturdays. Gran, on the other hand, doesn’t think a meal is complete without meat and always makes sure the biscuit tin is fully stocked.
You look completely different, too. You were tall and reed-like, while Grandma Thomas barely pushes five feet. Gran’s accent carries a faint Jamaican lilt, while you sounded like a born and bred Londoner. Gran’s hair was relaxed, cropped and dyed the same shade of nut brown as long as I’d known her. You changed your hair whenever you felt like it, braids, wigs, your natural Afro – whatever suited your mood.